


far from any afflictions

by DCG94



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: AO3 FB Challenge, Awesome Clint Barton, CA:CW compliant, Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Clint and Laura Barton's Family, Gen, Hurt Wanda Maximoff, Jewish Wanda Maximoff, Missing Scene, POV Wanda Maximoff, Prison was not good to Wanda Maximoff, Protective Clint Barton, RAFT scene, Telepathic Wanda Maximoff, Torture, Wanda Maximoff Needs a Hug
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-29
Updated: 2018-07-29
Packaged: 2019-06-18 02:39:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,606
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15475698
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DCG94/pseuds/DCG94
Summary: Wanda has been through hell before. She's no stranger to imprisonment, only this time she doesn't have Pietro right beside her. She's not sure how she'll survive the RAFT without her twin; Clint picks up on her fear, and he does what he can to help her through. He says there's an end in sight, that they'll escape, but Wanda's not so sure.





	far from any afflictions

**Author's Note:**

> Begins directly after the airport scene in CA:CW.  
> This was written for the July 2018 AO3 Facebook Challenge! 
> 
> Inspired by [this Tumblr post ](http://puzzle-dragon.tumblr.com/post/144214803939/prison-was-not-good-to-team-cap-but-prison-was).
> 
> Title is from an online translation of the Havineinu, a Hebrew prayer. 
> 
> This work is not beta-ed; any mistakes are mine. 
> 
> All the characters belong to Marvel.

She goes down fighting. They all do, of course, but she’s the last. The rest of her team-mates have been subdued and the Quinjet got out safely. Clint is calling her name, calling for a cease-fire. Stark’s still hitting her with all he’s got, but she’d learned how to deflect his repulsor beams. It’s like child’s play. Vision is the more pressing issue; his energy is enough to rival her own and he’s putting it to full use, despite his apology earlier.  
  
By the time Clint’s voice actually makes it through the haze of red, Wanda is spent. She collapses to her knees, feeling as tired as she had that first time, so long ago, when she tested her powers back with Hydra.  
  
The concrete grates through the leather of her pants – it grounds her. She’s forgotten how out-of-touch she gets when she overextends herself like this.  
  
The minute the energy fades, Stark’s there. And Vision. Both are wary, but moving forward. Vision mutters something about not fighting back; she wouldn’t even if she could. Her job is done – Steve is clear. He’ll end the other Winter Soldiers, and his friend will be safe from whatever horrors the UN has planned for him.  
  
She lets Tony manhandle her into a submission hold, doesn’t fight when he hands her over to the task force sent to subdue the wayward Avengers. Sam ends up on her right, Clint on her left, as they wait for the government-issue SUV’s to get onto the taxiway. The newcomer, Scott, is fighting to stay conscious; they’re all on their knees, hands bound behind their backs. Even without her powers, Wanda could break out of the plastic ties, but there’s no point. Fighting at this point will only make things worse, so she doesn’t fight.  
  
She’s not surprised when she’s separated from the rest of the team; it would be foolish to keep her with them, to let anyone stay in her presence for too long. She can feel Sam’s determination, Clint’s anxiety, Scott’s exhaustion. Clint and Sam have the training to lock her out, but neither seem bothered by her aimless probing.  
  
As she’s taken away from her team she feels the others as she passes. Natasha has just appeared from inside the hangar; her walls are perfectly sound as always, but Wanda doesn’t have to do much digging to sense the conflict coursing through her. If Natasha feels the link, she doesn’t show it. Tony’s all worry and frustration, some sadness thrown in. His walls are weak and he seems almost relieved to have her in there, as if it would ease his own conscience. She won’t help him there; his guilt is his own battle to fight.  
  
Vision is closed off, as always. Part of his allure is that she can’t read him at all, and it’s through no fault of his own. The Mind Stone keeps him safe from her, though now she’s more upset by that than anything else. He’d been a comfort to her, had understood why she felt the way she did. Had offered to help her understand it, too. She’d hoped she could count on him; his betrayal hurts worse than the others’.  
  
But he’s watching her with those puzzling eyes, and trying to see what’s going through her head, like he has any right to know what she’s feeling. Like he hasn’t just shot her out of the sky. Like he’s not watching her death-march – because she has no illusions that she’ll ever again see the light of day. Stark may talk about reinstatement and citizenship, but she doesn’t believe for a second that the U.S. government will let her go, now that Steve isn’t holding his shield in front of her.  
  
She’s never been that naïve.

* * *

  


She doesn’t fight when they put her into the SUV.  
  
She doesn’t fight when she feels the car leave the ground.  
  
She doesn’t fight when she’s escorted into the middle of a hurricane.  
  
She doesn’t fight when they take her down, down, down, deeper below the earth than she’s ever dreamed of going.  
  
She doesn’t fight when she passes the cells holding the rest of her team.  
  
They take her into an empty, white room with lights so bright they blind her.  
  
She doesn’t fight.  
  
Until the siren starts.  
  
At first it’s annoying, but bearable. She’s heard of sensory overstimulation as a means of getting into someone’s head, so it’s not hard to figure that’s what’s happening. She backs into the corner furthest from the door, hunkers down, and covers her ears. It’s not too bad.  
  
But then the sound intensifies, and something happens in the room. The air gets dry, as dry as the bitterest Sokovian winter, and just as cold. It’s freezing in the room, cold enough that even her weathered jacket feels like paper between her and the air’s bite.  
  
And the siren grows louder, louder, until she can’t think. She whispers in Hebrew – something, anything, to distract her from the wailing.  
  
She hasn’t been so synagogue in years, and she can’t recite the prayers like she once could. The ones she’d thought she would always know by heart – she should, at least, she’d heard them nearly every day growing up. She and Pietro had recited them through the long days at the orphanage, and then through HYDRA’s experiments. The Havineinu comes easily enough at first, but as the intensity grows her grasp on the prayer slips.  
  
It isn’t enough, anyway. Her recitation grows louder and louder, more and more desperate, but no matter how loud she is the siren is worse. And growing in pitch; it pierces her skull and makes her see stars. Her recitation turns into wordless screams; if she could just get a moment of reprieve, she’ll be fine. Just a moment of something other than the _noise_.  
  
She’s too caught in the noise that she doesn’t notice the air warming. She doesn’t hear the hiss of the door opening, or the pair of feet entering the white-bright room.  
  
But she feels the prick of a needle.  
  
She looks up, silent now; the wailing stops. Someone is standing above her with a syringe in one hand and an open case in the other.  
  
She stares at him for a moment, trying to comprehend what she’s seeing. A threat, this is a threat. What had he injected her with? It doesn’t matter; he’s a threat.  
  
She narrows her eyes. He’s wearing something that covers his face, she can’t meet his eyes. Had he been the one in charge of the noise?  
  
Her head hurts just thinking about it.  
  
Instinct takes over and she’s on her feet, hands outstretched. She lets the energy well up in her hands, fully prepared to launch him out of the room. It’s not until she feels another prick that she realizes he’s not alone.  
  
Now the world is spinning.  
  
She snarls, something she hasn’t done since she tackled Pietro on their twelfth birthday. Pietro would have known better than to cross her with that look, but Pietro isn’t here. These men don’t know anything about her, about her tells. They don’t know to back up. If they had known her, the first man wouldn’t have flown across the room like he does, wouldn’t have landed in a heap by the open door.  
  
She stalks forward, intent on escape. She’ll make her way back to Sam and the others; they can’t be far.  
  
One more prick, this time to her neck, and she’s on the ground, trying to fight the effects of the sedative. She knows this feeling. Has felt it too often under von Strucker’s orders. The last time her limbs were this heavy, Pietro was in the next cell whispering encouragements through the glass.  
  
_We will make it, Wanda. You will make it. You are strong._  
  
You are strong.  
  
As consciousness fades, she could swear she hears Pietro whispering to her again.  
  
_You are strong_.  
  


* * *

When she comes to, she’s sore everywhere. Everything hurts, muscles she doesn’t even know she has. The closest thing she can liken it to is the way she felt after the spa day Natasha had insisted on, soon after returning from the farm. Acupuncture, or something similar – but instead of relaxed, Wanda only feels pain.  
  
There are tender points all over her body, telling her where needles have been. She’s all too familiar with the feeling, from her time with Hydra.  
  
Funny how Hydra hadn’t hurt her as much as this does. And she’s never had a memory gap like this; she doesn’t remember this session at all.  
  
She groans and moves to get up, but her limbs don’t cooperate. Her arms are tucked up over her chest, immobilized by… she looks down, feels her heart rate speed up when she sees the sleeves of a straightjacket.  
  
She squirms, instinct taking over once again, but screams as a jolt of fire shoots through her.  
  
“Wanda!”  
  
Clint? She looks around, desperate for a familiar face.  
  
“What’s happening?”  
  
Sam!  
  
She struggles harder, eyes raking the cell. And screams again as another jolt nearly knocks her back against the wall.  
  
“Hey, kid! What’s going on?” Clint’s voice comes from somewhere to her right. “What the hell are you doing to her!”  
  
Wanda cringes, struck by the uncharacteristic rage in his voice; it takes her a terrifying moment to realize he’s not addressing her.  
  
“Clint?” she calls, only to choke on another scream. This one leaves her trembling.  
  
“Hey – what are you doing?” Sam shouts from somewhere to her left. “She’s a kid!”  
  
“A kid with powers we don’t understand,” says a new voice. She’s never heard this one before, but it’s haughty and nasal and it grates through the pain of the aftershock and worms it’s way through her skill. It makes the pain worse; she tries to cringe in on herself.  
  
Another shock, not bad but still enough to make her gasp.  
  
“What the hell are you doing to her?” Sam asks.  
  
“Covering all our bases,” the painful voice says, standing right before her. She looks up, but can’t see more than a silhouette. She may be able to get a better angle, but she’s still sore and she doesn’t want to give him another reason to shock her.  
  
She settles for glaring in his direction. It speaks again. “She’s the unknown factor here. We can’t risk her getting loose, causing more disaster than she has already.”  
  
“You’re torturing her!” A loud bang accompanied Sam’s accusation.  
  
“I am ensuring the safety of everyone in this facility,” the silhouette corrects. “By whatever means necessary.”  
  
“Wanda, kid.” Clint again. “What did they do to you?”  
  
Wanda looks down, still unsure of the answer herself.  
  
“Can’t… move,” she croaks around the pain in her throat. “Throat… shock…”  
  
“You put her in a _shock collar_?” Sam shouts again. “She’s not a fucking dog!”  
  
“You’re right, she’s a dangerous criminal. We don’t know what she’s capable of.”  
  
The silhouette bends over, showing Wanda a thin face with a fat mustache.  
  
“You get the gist, missy,” he says matter-of-factly. “This is remote-controlled, and there is someone watching the feed every minute of the day. No funny business.”  
  
“You son of a _bitch_ ,” Sam mutters. “Torturing a damn kid. He got you tied up, too, Wanda?”  
  
She doesn’t answer; he takes her silence for what it is.  
  
“I swear to God, Ross, when I get outta here-”  
  
“You’re not going anywhere. None of you. We’ve got a team searching for Rogers and Barnes. You’re all too dangerous to let free. So get comfortable – you’ll be here for a while.  
  
The smug grin he throws at Wanda is enough to make her cringe again. The metal of the shock collar rubs against her already-raw skin, raising gooseflesh along her spine.  
  
The man, Ross, turns away and fades into darkness. A door clicks and she feels his presence leave the room.  
  
“Wanda. Hey, kid, can you hear me?”  
  
_Can you hear me?_  
  
Wanda starts when she hears Clint’s voice in her head.  
  
_Just think, sweetheart. Don’t talk, don’t give them any excuse to hurt you, ‘kay?_  
  
Sweetheart. Laura is the only one to ever call her that – it’s an American endearment, one she thought silly until Laura used it to soothe away a nightmare. Since then it has only ever been associated with Laura.  
  
_I won’t_ , she thinks. Even over the mental link, she knows she sounds shaky and weak. It’s infuriating, knowing she can’t do anything about it. She hasn’t felt like this since…  
  
The panic starts to rise again; the anticipation of another shock makes it worse.  
  
_Hey, hey. You gotta calm down, Wanda._ Clint is steady and calm as ever, even though she feels his blood rush. _Honey, you don’t get worked up her. They’re scared of you, they don’t know what you can do. They’ll think you’re gearing up for an attack. Breathe, honey._  
  
Breathe, honey. Laura had said the same thing, that first night. That first full night without Pietro right beside her.  
  
_That’s right, think of Laura. The farm, remember that?_ Clint asks, reaching over their bond to brush across her consciousness. It feels like him; calloused, gentle. Like his hand running up and down her back, or his shoulder strong and steady beneath her head. And there’s something there else there, something of Laura. That smooth, calming chant of _Breathe honey. You’re safe, sweetheart._  
  
She follows Laura’s instructions; remembers the breathing techniques the older woman taught her. Clint leads her through them and she slowly feels her limbs begins to loosen.  
  
Everything still hurts, and she’s still reeling from the fear and the pain and the humiliation of it all, but she can breathe. She can breathe, here in this cell where she can’t move and she can’t speak and she can’t see anyone – but Clint is there, and Sam, and Scott, and she can breathe.  
  


* * *

She doesn’t know if it’s the shock that wakes her, or the screams that come before it, but when she jolts up in a cold sweat the pain doesn’t stop. Electricity courses through her veins, fire through her blood, and she can’t get away from it; her arms are stuck, her feet tangled up, and it _hurts_. She keeps screaming, and the fire keeps coming, until her body is completely spent and she’s left with nothing but trembling, pain-wracked sobs and a hard wall at her back.  
  
When she can’t move anymore the fire subsides, but her neck is sore and tender. She knows a burn wound when she feels it.  
  
As she stops screaming someone else starts. A male; she backs away, trying to hide herself from the sound, certain it would send another shock through her.  
  
“St…” she can’t even get the word out; she curls up and tries without success to bury her head in her hands, like she’d learned back when she went to school. The man kept yelling, and the waiting was worse than the actual shock.  
  
It takes her too long to remember she doesn’t have to speak to be heard.  
  
_Clint?_  
  
_What happened?_ She brushes against his mind, expecting the same warm comfort she’d felt earlier, and recoils at the red, harsh violence there. He’s furious, and she can feel it. She physically cringes further away, trying to withdraw.  
  
As suddenly as the onslaught came, it’s gone – replaced almost flawlessly with an image of the farmhouse, and the kids, and Laura and Clint and Lucky. Clint initiates the conversation again.  
  
_Sorry, kid. That wasn’t for you; I’m not angry at you._  
  
She doesn’t relax, not really, but she uncurls a little. Clint catches it. _What did they do to you? What happened?_  
  
He’s hiding the anger well; she can still feel it, seething under the surface but if she concentrates on the conversation, she can ignore it. Mostly.  
  
It takes too much energy to explain everything.  
  
_It hurts_ , she says simply, allowing herself a small whimper. _The shouting, it makes it worse._  
  
“Sam, shut the hell up!” Clint calls over the yelling. “She’s terrified!”  
  
Everything gets silent, save for Wanda’s labored breathing.  
  
_What happened?_ He asks again, patient and calm. Calmer.  
  
She takes a breath and tries to think through it logically.  
  
_It was a nightmare, I… I think. And I couldn’t move my arms, or my legs…_ She sends him an image of the straightjacket, of the panic she’d felt when she woke up. And the pain.  
  
“Fuck,” he mutters out loud. Wanda winces at the venom there. Silently he continues, _Hey. Listen to me, okay? Keep focused on the farm. Keep Laura in your head. She makes it easier, right?_  
  
Wanda nods. Remembering Laura, remembering a mother’s touch does make things easier. She takes a breath and focuses on the picture Clint projects.  
  
“Wanda, you’re gonna be okay,” Sam says from his side of her cell. She starts at his voice, but nods weakly.  
  
“She can’t say anything,” Clint says. “They’ll hurt her.”  
  
_Can you talk to him like this?_ he asks silently. Wanda frowns; she hasn’t really spent much time actually fostering the mental links between herself and her team. It’s mostly been her entering their minds, not letting them into her own. It’s invasive, and intimate, and something that she’s only ever shared with Clint. And Pietro.  
  
Clint catches on, and tells her not to worry about it. _Just focus on me, okay kid? Not sure how yet, but we’ll get you out of here. We’ll get you safe, ‘kay?_  
  
She nods, not trusting her voice. Clint’s worry comes over the link, and it means the world to her that he cares, but it doesn’t help the pain, or the fear of pain. If anything, it only makes it worse.  
  
The rest of what she assumes is the night passes without incident, but no one goes back to sleep.  


* * *

The exhaustion is wearing on her. She can barely keep her head up, but she’s terrified of going to sleep. Clint tries to urge her to get some rest, to at least close her eyes; he’d even offered to let her crawl into his head to get some distance. It’s mostly a joke, something lighthearted to take her mind off of the fear, but she can feel the sincerity. If only her powers worked that way; of course it can’t be that easy.  
  
He’s in the middle of another mental plea when the doors slide open again.  
  
She watches Tony Stark strut in, like he hasn’t done a thing in the world wrong. Except it’s an act; alternating guilt and frustration roll off him in tidal waves, flooding her with a different kind of anxiety than what she’s felt since coming here.  
  
She can’t work up the energy to track his movements across the block.  
  
Clint claps with faux enthusiasm, adopting the circus accent he uses when playing with Cooper and Lila. “The futurist, ladies and gentlemen!” She listens as he continues to mock the man who put them in here, as Stark tries to defend himself. Attuned as she’s become to Clint, she feels his own frustration, his disappointment. His anger on her behalf. She marvels that his voice doesn’t shake when he mentions her, because she feels every emotion running through his head, as she knows he feels hers.  
  
She feels his betrayal and her own when Stark mentions Laura. She winces and curls in on herself when Clint pounds on the glass, wanting more than anything to hurl himself at the man who dared bring his family into this place, even if in name only.  
  
When Stark moves away, ignoring Clint’s taunts and jabs, Wanda lets herself relax. Not much, not at all, but he’s not in her line of sight, and Clint is calming down. He’s listening intently to the conversation Stark was having with Sam, but Wanda couldn’t care less. She’ll let him do that for her; instead she wonders if Stark knows what they’ve done to her.  
  
She can’t tell, looking at him. His head is all jumbled up anyway; when she’d delved in in Sokovia, she felt it. The overwhelming emotion and math and possibilities that go through his head on a daily basis; it’s a wonder he’s still clinically sane. She doesn’t have the constitution to get back into that. Not after the sleepless night and the pain-filled days.  
  
It’s a relief when he leaves, but only slightly. Clint is still fuming, and she can feel that like a warm flame in the back of her own mind. Sam, who has been a more or less grounding presence, is conflicted and worried. She’s barely paid any attention to Scott since he woke up, but even he’s agitated. Now she can feel some of his emotions more clearly; he’s scared of something, but she can’t figure out what.  
  
_Cap’s alive_ , Clint tells her. _He and Barnes made it out of the airport._  
  
He’s trying to help her, to offer her some sort of hope, but she can’t bring herself to care about Steve right now. He’s out there, in the world, doing what he does best; she’s not. She’s here, locked up like an animal, with a collar to match. Cap can rot in hell for all she cares.  
  
_Hey, calm down kid. Start thinking like that and you won’t be able to stop._  
  
Clint’s presence comes back; he’s calmed down himself and is working on getting her breathing back under control. _Don’t let your heart rate get up, kid. These suits, they’ve got monitors on our vitals. They’ll know if you get too worked up._  
  
It makes sense, and it kills her. In less than a week, Ross has managed to take everything from her. Her powers, her voice, her mobility. Now he’s taking her ability to feel. To react like a normal human; she can’t even have that.  
  
Clint reacts to her loss, as he has been doing since she woke up a lifetime ago. He reaches out, tentative but steady, and lets her come the rest of the way. She does; his consciousness holds tight onto hers and at some point, she actually falls asleep.  
  


* * *

There’s no telling how long it’s been. It feels like months, but it may be a day and she wouldn’t know it. There’s no real way to tell how time passes in here, but she trusts Clint’s biological clock and he assures her they haven’t even been locked up for three days.  
  
As zoned out as she is, she doesn’t notice their next visitor until her door is opening and he’s standing in front of her. Clint shouts something, Sam pounds the glass; even Scott is making some sort of commotion. It’s all lost on her; she backs up into a corner and tries to make herself as small as possible, tries to make herself invisible, but it doesn’t work. Ross has two men with him; one for each arm. They haul her up between them; she dig her heels in, but there’s no purchase to be found on the slick tile.  
  
It doesn’t take much effort on their part to drag her out of the cell; she’s not muscular, and she’s exhausted and hungry on top. Without her powers, she has no real resistance, but fight or flight kicks in and she balks.  
  
“Wanda, don’t struggle!” Clint shouts, but it comes too late. The shock sends her reeling; only the guards on either side keep her upright. By the time it’s over, her throat is raw from screaming and all she wants to do was to curl up and disappear. She can’t even do that; she can’t even double over, no matter how hard her body tries.  
  
“Where are you taking her?” Sam demands. “Let her go! Ross!”  
  
Ross doesn’t acknowledge the airman’s reaction; he walks out of the prison block. The guards follow, carrying her limp form between them.  
  
“Don’t fight them, Wanda!” Clint calls. It was the last thing she hears before the doors hiss shut.  
  


* * *

She wakes up groggy in her cell, even more sore than she had been in the past days. Whatever they’d done, it had been extensive – even if she wasn’t in a straightjacket, she wouldn’t have been able to move. She groans before her senses can kick in, and this time all she can do is whimper pathetically as the fire shoots through her. It takes her too long to register Clint’s panicked chanting – he’s speaking and thinking it, doing everything he can to get her attention.  
  
“Wanda. You awake? No, don’t talk, sweetheart, don’t try to talk.”  
  
She doesn’t even have the energy to open her mouth. Not that she would anyway.  
  
Instead, she throws down her walls entirely, projecting a vague image of ‘I’m awake’ to anyone in the block. She feels the startled reactions of her cellmates – she’s only occasionally tried to communicate with Sam like this, and she’d hardly said two words to Scott at all – but Clint’s relief is palpable and he lets it stream over their link.  
  
_Scared us for a second, kid, he says. How are you feeling?_  
  
She thinks for a second – actually thinks about the answer to that question. For the past few days she’s been in pain and hurt and scared and angry, and trapped and poked and prodded like a new species of animal. She’s been in this position before – except then she was allowed to use her powers, encouraged even – and then she had her brother right next to her, with only a sheetrock wall separating them.  
  
She sends that image across the link, just for Clint to see. She’s seen the most vulnerable part of his life, and he can understand what she’s feeling. He won’t need the words she can’t conjure.  
  
Clint sighs, and she can feel the rage barely hidden under the surface.  
  
_My kids are in danger_ , he says. _And you’re telling me you got better treatment from Hydra than you are in a U.S. prison._ A dry chuckle escapes his lips. _Look how the mighty have fallen._  
  
Wanda doesn’t say anything. How could she? There’s nothing to say.  
  
She simply rolls over, tired and sore and fucking hungry, and tries to think of Laura and the farm, and Lucky rolling around in the tall grass.  
  
Clint joins her; together they creat a beautiful scene of what is happening there right now.  
  
The kids would be whining because they were promised a trip to the lake. Laura would be exhausted but content, holding baby Nathaniel Pietro while Clint and Wanda are out honing Wanda’s aim. Laura will have made matzo balls, just for Wanda, and she’ll have baked some cookies for after the meal. Lila has snuck a cookie before it was cool, but she’s got it in her mouth before Laura can do anything and the chocolate burns are punishment enough. She’ll even get a cooled-off cookie after dinner. Cooper will have his new astronomy book with him at the table, and will interrupt the conversation to talk about some amazing fact he’s just read.  
  
They’re just putting the finishing touches on their little domestic scene when there’s another commotion outside the door. As deep into their link as they are, Wanda feels Clint tense up, feels the anticipation as the pneumatic door opens with a hiss.  
  
She curls up tighter, already heeding Clint’s warning not to fight. She’s had enough of the shock collar; she knows the drill.  
  
The lights in her cell keep her from seeing whoever it is – just a hulking form with no edges.  
  
He doesn’t come for her though, which is a relief. She shrinks into herself, tries to make herself smaller. She vaguely hears Clint in her mind, but his voice fades in and out, like a bad radio signal. There’s a panic rising up – but she doesn’t need him to tell her not to fight this time. She knows better; she won’t make that mistake again.  
  
The panic rises up, paralyzing her, skewing her thoughts and coloring everything she sees. Everything is red, like blood, like the energy she has come to think of as a part of her, something she’d thought they could never take away.  
  
Clint’s voice is more insistent now, and there are others standing in front of her cell, watching her, gloating. Her head hurts with all of the senses bombarding her; she throws her walls back up, blocking out everything, and draws her knees in closer. Her arms itch to reach out and hold them, but she won’t struggle. She knows better now.  
  
The knowing doesn’t stop the wince as she geeks hands move up and down her outfit. Stop at the collar, the cold hard metal around her neck keeping her from being human. She backs away from the touch, blind to anything but the fear, sure that it will mean another shock.  
  
She’s not wrong; as the collar jangles around her neck, brushing against the burns it has already left, it sends out a wave that leaves her reeling. She whimpers – can’t scream, that will only make things worse – and falls over, curling in on herself to make it stop. Anything to make it stop.  
  
She hears something – a man’s voice, familiar, soothing. Through the haze she can’t make out the words, and her mind is too scattered to reach out - they’ve finally taken that from her, too. She can’t feel Clint anymore, can’t feel Sam or Scott.  
  
When she feels hands on her shoulders she hunches in tighter; in the midst of a meltdown she doesn’t realize that her arms are free to hug her knees. She doesn’t realize that she’s closed off because _she_ had closed herself off. All she knows is that the collar is still buzzing, still daring her to try anything.  
  
She doesn’t know how long she lays there trembling, but eventually she becomes aware of the male voice again, gentle and coaxing.  
  
“…open your eyes, kid,” Clint says. “Look, I told you we’d get you out of here. Wanda, can you hear me?”  
  
She nods and does as she was told. Slowly, so slowly, she opens her eyes. For once, the harshness of the lights isn’t blinding; Clint is kneeling beside her, rubbing his hand up and down her back, patient and steady as ever.  
  
She blinks; had they put him in the cell with her? Why? She sends a thought out toward him, but even after taking her walls down she can’t reach him. She feels her eyes widen as the panic starts to come back. Had they really taken that from her, too? Her only comfort in this hell hole, Clint’s consciousness brushing past her own – is that just another thing she’s lost here?  
  
“Hey, it’s okay, kid. I know you’re scared. Can you breathe for me?” She gasps in a breath, trying to keep it, but she can’t. _Don’t let your heart rate get up, kid, he had told her._ So she breathes, and Clint falls into rhythm with her. When he feels confident that she can continue on her own, he speaks again.  
  
“Cap’s here,” he says. “Told you we’d get out, didn’t I? Look, he got your arms free. Can you try moving them for me?”  
  
He reaches for her arms, but she recoils before he can touch them. He freezes until she relaxes, and he doesn’t reach out again. She doesn’t know if she’s disappointed or grateful.  
  
But she does try to move her arms. It feels strange, wrong even, that they’re able to straighten and bend after all that time immobilized.  
  
He’s even ripped the closed sleeves off, so her hands are free. She stares down at them; her fingernails are ragged and her palms are blistered, from the sweat or the fight or the clawing she doesn’t know. But they don’t hurt; they look like they should hurt.  
  
She hears footsteps approaching and throws herself back against the wall, wide eyes glued to Clint.  
  
“Guys, wait!” he calls, holding up a hand. His eyes never leave her face. “Hey kid. It’s okay, it’s just Cap. He’s not going to hurt you, alright?”  
  
Her eyes flicker up, follow the voices. Steve is standing above them both, wary. She doesn’t need her powers to see the guilt and the hurt running through his heart.  
  
“Let me see the collar.”  
  
Wanda looks past Steve, past his face so full of pity it makes her sick, to where Scott stands almost hidden behind the super-soldier. All eyes turn to him, shocked.  
  
“I’m an electrical engineer. I can get it off without hurting her.” Steve steps aside and lets him approach, but Clint moves so he’s actually blocking the man. He’s still watching her.  
  
“You okay for him to touch it?” he asks. “Cap tried earlier, but it backfired.”  
  
Wanda nods. If Scott can give her back her voice, she’ll let him do anything.  
  
Clint slowly shifts so that he’s sitting cross-legged in front of her, blocking her from Sam and Steve’s view. Scott approaches warily, looking between her and Clint at every movement. He keeps his hands where she can see them, and when he’s at eye-level with her he moves them toward her.  
  
She knows it’s coming. She can see him, knows he isn’t going to hurt her. He had fought alongside her, watched her back at the airport. She had felt his anger when he realized they were hurting her.  
  
She knows he’s safe, and still she flinches when he touches the collar.  
  
Clint’s hand shoots out lightning fast, grabbing Scott’s wrist and pulling it back.  
  
“Wait,” he says.  
  
“The guards will be waking up soon,” Steve warns. Clint ignores him.  
  
“Listen, kid, we’re not going to do anything you’re not okay with,” he says instead. “Do whatever you need to make this okay. You call the shots here.”  
  
She closes her eyes. Maybe that will make it better. Takes a breath, prepares for whatever will happen.  
  
She reaches out to Clint again, not expecting to find anything, but he’s there. It’s soft, hardly anything more than a blip, but he’s there and he can hear her. She puts all of her energy into one message: _Get it off._  
  
She’d tensed up for the shock, but it doesn’t come. She squeezes her eyes as close as she can, leans forward and wraps her arms around her knees, hugging them tight. The position grounds her, reminded her that she can do something to stop it, if she wants.  
  
It helps. She feels Scott’s fingers, as gentle as Clint’s presence has been, carefully working around the harsh metal of the collar. He doesn’t make contact with her skin; doesn’t touch her neck. She’s grateful for that; she doesn’t think she’d be able to keep it up if he had.  
  
She doesn’t realize she’s holding her breath until the collar pops off with a click and she lets it out unintentionally. The cool air brushes against the abused skin on her throat and stings on contact.  
  
Sam curses. Clint’s eyes harden into something she’s never seen on him before. Scott’s get big and round, and he has a hand reached out before he remembered not to touch her. Steve’s jaw clenches and unclenchea as he takes in whatever damage the collar had revealed.  
  
Steve, ever the leader, is the one to break the silence.  
  
“Let’s get out of here,” he says. “Wanda, can you stand?”  
  
His voice is stern as always, harsh with emotion. She cringes away from it and looked to Clint.  
  
“I’m right here,” he says. “Whatever you need, I can be.” She nods and braces herself on the floor. The cool tile feels good against her skin; for a second she just wants to stay where she is and let the sensation ground her forever.  
  
But this place is hell. The thought of being here any longer than she absolutely has to was almost enough to send her into another panic attack, so she slowly works until her feet are underneath her.  
  
She hasn’t stood on her own since she first came to this place; it has only been a few days since, but already her legs are shaky under her weight. She sways, but catches herself before Clint can rush to her rescue.  
  
But one step nearly sends her tumbling, and only Clint’s arms around her keep her from falling face-first onto the hard tile.  
  
She has to remind herself that this is Clint. His grip on her arms, gentle as it is, is too much and she struggles to get out of his grasp.  
  
He lets her go easily, but keeps his hands up, ready to catch her if she stumbles again.  
  
“Hey, take your time, kid,” he says. “Whatever you need. I won’t touch you again, not until you tell me I can.”  
  
She nods, forcing herself to breathe. She reaches out again, for his presence, the only thing that has kept her sane these past few days, and this time the connection is stronger. He welcomes her in and stands right behind her in every sense, sharing his willingness to do whatever she needs him to.  
  
She moves forward, tentatively at first but gaining a little more strength with each step. He moves with her, his steps perfectly in time with her own and slowly they make their way out of the cell.  
  
She doesn’t look up. Keeps her eyes on the ground, concentrates on putting one foot in front of the other. She feels Clint’s hand hovering over her back, always ready to catch her, and lets him steer her. He sends her gentle encouragements, makes sure she knows that every step is a victory. In return she sends him her gratitude, making sure he knows that she agrees.  
  
She’s not sure how they made it up to the platform, but she welcomes the rain when it hits her in the face.  
  
Days of sensory deprivation has left her numb and weak. The air in her cell had been perfectly modulated so that she couldn’t feel it. She hasn’t felt anything that wasn’t the hard metal of the cell or the rough fabric of the straightjacket, and the cold wetness of the storm is overwhelming and beautiful and she can _feel_ it.  
  
Clint keeps her moving forward, keeps her from slipping or falling into the wind, but he doesn’t rush her. He must feel her relief at actual sensation – she doesn’t mean to send it over to him, but they’ve become so in-tune over the past few days that she couldn’t have hidden it if she wanted to.  
  
Eventually he warns her that there’s a step-up coming, and then she’s in the Quinjet. Clint guides her over to a bench, waits until she’s sitting before taking the chair a little further up the row. Sam has already settled into the copilot’s chair next to Steve, and Scott is walking around the cabin, alternating between wondering at the technology and sending worried glances her way. She doesn’t acknowledge them; she’s too busy trying to keep her eyes open.  
  
“You’re safe, kid,” Clint says. “You can sleep now, if you want.”  
  
She purses her lips, unsure, but leans back in the seat – it’s one of the more comfortable ones, designed specifically for when a fight goes wrong and someone needs to lie down.  
  
She doesn’t plan on sleeping, but her body must sense that she’s finally safe, even if her mind can’t quite accept that yet, because the last thing she remembers is Clint sitting beside her, murmuring the lullaby Laura had taught her, so long ago.


End file.
